The Mirror Of Literature, Amusement, And Instruction. Volume 14, No. 391, September 26, 1829

Chaining the gazer's eye—and yet he cannot weep.

But stands entranced and rooted to the spot,
While grows the scene upon him vast, sublime,
Like some gigantic city's ruin, not
Inhabited by men, but Titans—Time
Here rests upon his scythe and fears to climb,
Spent by th' unceasing toil of ages past,
Musing he stands and listens to the chime
Of rock-born spirits howling in the blast,
While gloomily around night's sable shades are cast.

Well deemed I ween the Druid sage of old
In making this his dwelling place on high;
Where all that's huge and great from Nature's mould,
Spoke this the temple of his deity;
Whose walls and roof were the o'erhanging sky,
His altar th' unhewn rock, all bleak and bare,
Where superstition with red, phrensied eye
And look all wild, poured forth her idol prayer,
As rose the dying wail,[4 - Human sacrifices formed part of the religious rites of the Druids.] and blazed the pile in air.

Lost in the lapse of time, the Druid's lore
Hath ceased to echo these rude rocks among;
No altar new is stained with human gore;
No hoary bard now weaves the mystic song;
Nor thrust in wicker hurdles, throng on throng,
Whole multitudes are offered to appease
Some angry god, whose will and power of wrong
Vainly they thus essayed to soothe and please—
Alas! that thoughts so gross man's noblest powers should seize.

But, bowed beneath the cross, see! prostrate fall
The mummeries that long enthralled our isle;
So perish error! and wide over all
Let reason, truth, religion ever smile:
And let not man, vain, impious man defile
The spark heaven lighted in the human breast;
Let no enthusiastic rage, no sophist's wile
Lull the poor victim into careless rest,
Since the pure gospel page can teach him to be blest.

Weak, trifling man, O! come and ponder here
Upon the nothingness of human things—
How vain, how very vain doth then appear
The city's hum, the pomp and pride of kings;
All that from wealth, power, grandeur, beauty springs,
Alike must fade, die, perish, be forgot;
E'en he whose feeble hand now strikes the strings
Soon, soon within the silent grave must rot—
Yet Nature's still the same, though we see, we hear her not.